For Kristin, Gabi, Greta & Family When Daniel Schuetz began writing columns for She in 2008, he wholeheartedly undertook his assignment to provide a male viewpoint in a women’s magazine. But over the course of five years, those columns actually became his thoughts on living life to its fullest, cherishing relationships and the value of keeping an open mind. His exuberance, intelligence and humor were reflected in every word he wrote and every smile he brought to our faces.
Remembering Daniel By Tim Coriden
On the evening of Feb. 22, Daniel Schuetz was running late. It was a Friday night, and on weekend nights, Daniel’s internal clock ran a little more slowly than usual. His family had already arrived at our house, and his two lovely girls and our two boys had eaten and were already playing again. His wife, Kristin, brought the kids over to our house well before Daniel would be expected to arrive, and she, my wife and I picked at pizza and chatted together as we often did on Friday nights. As we talked, Daniel walked through the back door in his customary fashion – with a smile. He hugged his wife and friends and continued on through the house to find his daughters, Gabi and Greta. As he always did, Daniel would give each of the girls a hug and kiss, asking them about their day, all the while being careful not to abruptly pull the girls away from playtime with their friends. After checking in with his girls, Daniel settled in with the other three parents, eating pizza and enjoying a beverage. The four of us sat together watching the Pacers game, marveling at the young Paul George and speculating on how successful the Pacers might eventually become. We teased Daniel that Kristin had superior sports knowledge and that I had been watching the games with the wrong person all these years. Daniel, with his easy demeanor, simply smiled and shook his head, taking it all in stride. While we sat, we began our summer planning. With spring on the horizon, it was time once more to start our vacation planning and summer weekend planning. Daniel looked forward to the warmer weather and, in particular, gatherings with friends, and he planned with exuberance. Like most nights, the evening was uneventful, enjoyable and entertaining. As it came to a close and as was also customary for Daniel, he gave hugs to all – whether you were a hugger or not. All of us, readers included, would lose Daniel the next day. In so many ways I am very grateful to have spent that evening with him. However, if you are a reader of these column features and, in particular, his contributions to them, you might recognize that Daniel’s approach to life was not markedly different that night from any other night. His View from Mars writings always included open affection for Kristin, Gabi and Greta. They included humility. Daniel’s view was prideful of his wife’s sports knowledge, not intimidated. In short, he lived it like he wrote it. If you have the opportunity, take time to read some of his earlier pieces and take note of the astute observations of a great friend, father and community member. Tim Coriden, right, seen here with Daniel Schuetz and Steve Sanders.
5 When being wrong is oh-so-right Originally published January 16, 2008
6 Just because ...
Originally published May 21, 2008
8 The many benefits of paying attention Originally published September 17, 2008
9 Be my valentine
Originally published January 21, 2009
10 This is not what is meant by movie criticism Originally published May 20, 2009
12 Sometimes it’s the unexpected that pleases most Originally published October 21, 2009
14 Coffee is part product, part process Originally published January 20, 2010
16 But you can’t have a drink with your virtual friends Originally published July 21, 2010
18 It’s nice to do nice things
Originally published October 20, 2010
20 This weather puts a little spring in my step Originally published April 20, 2011
22 You couldn’t get lost in yesteryear’s hardware store Originally published August 17, 2011
24 The simplest solutions
Originally published November 16, 2011
26 Lessons in a bowl of ice cream Originally published February 15, 2012
28 Welcome to Columbus ... better late than never Originally published October 17, 2012
30 One size (cross) fits all
Originally published February 20, 2013
viewfrommars editor’s note: Each month our male counterparts will have the chance to put in their two cents, exploring topics ranging from relationships to business and community issues.
By daniel schuetz
photo By mike dickbernd
When being wrong is oh-so-right We are conditioned to want to always be right — i.e., “correct.” To seek the right answer on a test, or to find the right piece of a puzzle or just to be recognized as being right. One might expect this desire to be something of an evolutionary tool. It would have been quite useful to always be right about the shelf-life of smoked mammoth. Still is, I suppose. But so long as we are not talking about life-or-death situations, let me suggest that we, as humans, would be better off celebrating our wrong-ness. If not celebrating, at least acknowledging. Once in a while. Specifically, let me recommend the simple apology: “I’m sorry.” I am fairly well convinced that we don’t say it as often as we should because of our conditioning to always be right. And, let’s face it … an apology is usually a loud-and-clear, “I WAS WRONG!” Really. How often are we willing to be that vulnerable in front of anybody?
Which brings me to the crux: Of all the people in front of whom we (OK, now I probably mean “men” as much as I mean “humans” when I say “we”) are often least willing to be vulnerable, it is our significant others. And by vulnerable I mean putting one’s self in the position of flat-out wrong-ness. And one of the surest ways to be wrong is to admit guilt — to say you’re sorry. Now comes the good part, insofar as one is concerned about results. An apology can be disarming, in the best possible way. I am not advocating false, strategic, insincere apologies for the sake of emo-tactical advantage. This is unacceptable. And will be detected immediately, anyhow. I mean a real apology. A true, honest, “I’m sorry for ________.” Sometimes it is important to say exactly what it is for which one is sorry. Sometimes, not so much. Here’s the thing — an apology does the following: a. tells the other person (in this case, let’s presume your significant other) that you were, in fact, listening; b. and listening enough to hear the point they were making; c. and to recognize that the point that you were making was, in fact, wrong. When, I dare ask, was the last time we engaged in such complex and robust give-and-take with our significant other? If “recently” and “frequently” come to mind — well, good for you, though I will need additional evidence. If not, perhaps this is a decent place to start. Oh, one additional point — there is no need to worry about opportunity because … you guessed it … no one is always right. No one. As a closing matter, you may wonder whether an article appearing in a publication called She might actually have been written as if directed toward men. It was. Leave it open on the table after you have finished reading it.
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viewfrommars editor’s note: Each month our male counterparts will have the chance to put in their two cents, exploring topics ranging from relationships to business and community issues.
By Daniel B. Schuetz
Just because … So, I would like to chat a bit about spontaneity. For starters, I should tell you that I thought I had two different ideas for this piece. The first had a working title of “An enquiry regarding the effects on the human psyche of deviation from individual habit.” The second title was “Just because.” When I realized that these two articles were actually the same article, I combined the titles and subtracted the extraneous bits. I think the end result is quite satisfactory. But on with the chat. It is a great idea to recognize holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and the like. Such traditions are important as they bind us together as family or culture or country or whatever the group. Traditions help us mark time. Traditions often include a preparatory period. Generally, there will be some nostalgia — some reminiscing about whatever may have happened in the past that had to do with the tradition at hand. Less exciting traditions — daily habits and social norms — help us to function as a happy herd. Let us accept the premise that traditions are good. What’s on my mind today, though, is that which is not tradition. The unexpected. The spontaneous. The “just because.” We are not talking about traffic accidents, lightning strikes or random cruelty. Oh, no. We are talking about shooting stars, leaping dolphins and four-leaf clovers. “Wait a minute, mister,” I can hear you saying already. “How is one to control the visibility of a streaking meteorite, the presence of a water mammal or the availability of ground-cover that has more
leaves than usual?” I’m so glad you asked. The point is, when is the last time that you — either by yourself or with your significant other or with your children — went outside at night and looked up at the sky? Or stared at the ocean somewhere between the shore and the horizon? Or lay outside on your belly and poked around in the grass? When did you last will yourself to see a particular type of bird? Or seek a great cup of coffee? When did you last give someone flowers (excluding a funeral, birthday, anniversary, national holiday or other festival)? Read a poem you’ve never read? Write a poem? Sing out loud? Take off your shoes (when you ought to have been wearing them)? Without a doubt, the individual soul benefits from spontaneity. There is also no doubt that relationships do as well. How often does the predictable, the boring, the mundane, pollute an otherwise lovely day, relationship or meal? Do something about it, I say. Take an unplanned walk. Give a big hug. Order the ginger green tea ice cream. Flowers for Valentine’s Day are wonderful, and kind of requisite. Flowers for whatever day are breathtaking and come with no expectations whatsoever. So, sing in the shower. Breathe the air. Do something nice for yourself or someone you love. What is it, your birthday or something? Nope. Just because.
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viewfrommars editor’s note: Each month our male counterparts will have the chance to put in their two cents, exploring topics ranging from relationships to business and community issues.
By Daniel Schuetz | photo By kelsey vanarsdall
The many benefits of paying attention So, I was thinking about my life, my childhood, what sorts of things define me — you know, general reflection. And in the course of this general reflection, I stumbled upon some thoughts and memories that I had not considered for some time. Then I thought about how these thoughts and memories might impact my life now. At the end of this meditation, I found that I had a short article. It goes something like this: I certainly benefited, as a child, from very supportive, caring parents. In fact, I still do benefit. Additionally, I am fortunate to have a number of supportive aunts, uncles, cousins, not-quite-relatives and the like. You get the point. But that really is the subject of some other writing on some other day. My point is that I was the recipient of attention. My childhood next-door neighbors were kind and wonderful people. They should be the subjects of an entire book. However, what sticks with me now is that they paid attention to me. And not the dismissive, stay-off-my-lawn kind of attention that many were paid by their childhood neighbors, but genuine attention. I daresay even interest. I am not suggesting that I was such a fascinating 4-year-old that a mathematical genius and his wife particularly sought me out to inquire about my opinions of unrest in the Middle East or somesuch. What is important here is that I thought they did care about my opinions and observations. What is even more astounding to me, now, is that I know they really did care about what I thought. I know this because they asked me thoughtprovoking questions. I know this because they were never harsh with me. I know this because I believed, for a time, that a middle-age professor of mathematics was my best friend. I told my parents as much.
Yes, at the holidays they gave us awesome cookies with lots of icing and those decorations that were essentially sugar BBs. But to stoop down to my eye level when I asked how that ship got into that bottle on their mantel … or to give me as much time as I wanted to ponder the carved wooden ball inside the carved wooden box with no openings large enough to admit said ball … and to really listen to my theories …. That level of attention and respect and thoughtfulness is undoubtedly one of the greatest gifts that anyone has ever given me. The astounding thing is that I was given that gift by many people in my life — adults in my life. And, now, as a parent — I really challenge myself to give that level of attention and respect to my children. Of course, as parents (or siblings or caregivers), we have other hats to wear when dealing with children — these hats are not always the stuff of fond memories. This is also a subject for another day. The next time the neighbor kid (or some other kid that you may never see again) bellows out “Lemonade!” from his impromptu storefront — stop. Put yourself at his eye level. Ask, “How much?” Ask what he’s saving to buy. It does not matter so much that you’ll give a dollar when he charges you 50 cents (though that is nice, too). What really matters is that you acknowledged that kid as a person. You paid him attention. With attention comes validation, recognition and lots of other good stuff. And while it does not hurt to have a good explanation as to how that ship got in that bottle — be ready to crouch down and ask, “How do you think it got in there?” And then pay attention to the answer.
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Be my
valentine By Daniel B. Schuetz
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Oh, how I wanted to regale you with tales of famous Valentine’s Day exchanges, to educate you regarding the history of Valentine’s Day, to amaze and delight you with wondrous descriptions of Valentine’s Day celebrations of yore. Instead, you must settle for my observations regarding this Valentine’s Day. Less historical value? Perhaps. Greater practical value? Almost certainly. Unless, of course, you were preparing to compete on a trivia show whose subject was February Holidays and Celebrations …. So, let me tell you what I would do for my wife if money were no object. Perhaps it is obvious and played out, but I would give her a Cartier watch and a weekend in Jamaica. Boring and predictable, I know, but there you have it. Right now probably seems like a logical place to begin a description of what I am actually going to do for Valentine’s Day. As I refuse to be that predictable, I am actually going to tell you something else. I am going to tell you what to get your significant other for Valentine’s Day. “But you hardly know me,” you might object at this point. “Poppycock,” I say. Furthermore, I am going to be so bold as to suppose that there are more women than men reading this publication, and I am going to make a recommendation that would be a suitable gift for a woman to give a man. But, really, as you will soon read, any person could give this gift to any other person. So if money is no object, a Cartier watch and a weekend in Jamaica would be the perfect gift for anyone for Valentine’s Day. Why, I imagine that even a guest columnist would be touched by such a gesture. But let us be realistic. I do not suggest that anyone upset wellestablished traditions. If your significant other
delights in breakfast in bed and that is what you have done every Feb. 14 for the last 40 years, certainly do not stop now. If your established tradition is actually a tired old habit that neither of you really enjoys, then by all means, it is time for a change. Chocolate. Flowers. Baked goods. Sugary candy hearts with cute messages on them. All are fine gifts. Massages — good. Dinner out or specially prepared — good. Here, however, is my recommendation: Sit down with pen and paper and write a prose description of the first time you remember meeting your significant other. Or you could write about a memorable Valentine’s Day past. Either way. It can rhyme and be organized in stanzas if you just cannot help yourself. Really, it is better if you just say it. Do not feel any pressure to be any more or less creative than you want to be. If you have nice paper handy — use it. If not, a paper napkin will do. If you have a nice pen handy — use it. If not, crayon will suffice. It is somewhat difficult to write on a paper napkin with a crayon — try to avoid using both of these things. Find five minutes (at least) alone for this exercise. Lock yourself in the bathroom if that is the only way for you to get five minutes alone during your busy day. And just write. No need to be fancy or creative. Tell that person about that day. Mention what they wore, if you remember. Mention where you were. Mention how you felt when you saw them, spoke to them or whatever else comes to mind. This whole endeavor is much nicer if you have some sort of envelope in which to place your missive. Do not let lack of envelope stop you. Do not forget to actually give it to the person, regardless of whether you have not seen them in 10 years or whether you see each other daily over kids’ meals and laundry baskets. Now, go do it.
view from mars
EDITOR’S NOTE: Each month our male counterparts have the chance to put in their two cents, exploring topics ranging from relationships to business and community issues.
By Daniel Schuetz So, my wife and I recently decided to institute a new Monday night activity. A policy. A ritual, if you will. Monday night is Movie Night. It does not involve our children, other than that they will be upstairs, asleep, or not. The movie could be a rental, something we already own, something we borrow, whatever. We did not make a formal list, though it is our intention to catch up on some past award-winners, some old favorites and some cultural touchstones. I love movies, and I love spending time with my wife ... I also love popcorn, and so now I am also almost guaranteed a weekly dose. We will not leave the house for this endeavor, nor shall we spend a great deal of money.
What we will do follows in a short list: spend time together, seek entertainment and build on our common cultural reference points. The first two points probably seem obvious and the third … well, perhaps a bit odd. I should note that neither my wife nor I are formally trained sociologists. No, the point is that once upon a time, anything I saw or experienced was with my wife. I did not have to tell her about it — she was there. But, along come careers, and children, and chores, and chaos, and before you know it, we are reporting about our lives to each other over reheated chicken chili. Now, we are carving out time that is not about our kids, or our careers, or the household chores (OK, we folded a little bit of laundry). Sure, we could just sit and talk, but we make time for that. The point is to build on our common experiences. Are movies all there is to life? Well, of course not. But you’re not going to read all the books ever written, either, are you? Anyhow, for our
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viewfrommars own future conversations, for conversations with others, and just for the heck of it, we are watching movies. I think we both know, without having said it — oh, until now, of course — that we have in mind a run of 52 films. It seems preposterous. Perhaps pointless. But we’ll do it. And we’ll do it together. So, a short, dopey column about the world’s most obvious date night, eh? Phoning this one in, are we? Well, no. Less than five minutes in to Movie Night numero uno, I made a realization: I am a patient person, but of the billions of people on this planet, I am least patient with my wife. I will not tell you what movie we were watching, but I will tell you that neither of us had seen it previously. Neither of us had any superior knowledge or perspective as to what was happening. I had not even made the popcorn yet. The conversation went something like this: Wife: “What’s going on here?” Me: “Wha? What the? I’ve seen as much of this as you have!” Wife: “Is that really happening, or …?” Me: (with contorted face) “What?! How could you … I mean they … oh, man …” I do not speak to criminals with such utter disdain. And my wife, my movie-watching partner, the person I have chosen as a life mate, gets the worst treatment I have to offer. I actually just took a deep breath, though it seems a little self-conscious and self-indulgent to write “deep breath.” But I did. It actually pained and embarrassed me a little bit to write it. This Movie Night endeavor is a marathon and not a sprint. And so is life. And so should relationships be. I mean, what a jerk. It was not even a movie to which I had to concede. I wanted to watch it. On that day, with her, and how did I start off things? With criticism and disdain. Oh, I mellowed out. And the popcorn certainly helped both of our moods. But let me tell you, it did not take me long
to find meaning in Movie Night. It is not just about saying you will do something positive. It is not even in actually showing up to do it. I am actually really excited about next Movie Night already. To see a great film? Yes. To eat near-perfect popcorn? Of course. To expand my base of cultural reference? Undoubtedly. To give a wonderful person the time, attention and treatment that she deserves? Deep breath … absolutely.
viewfrommars
Sometimes it’s the unexpected that pleases most
By Daniel Schuetz
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So, my wife and I decided to expand our garden this year. We had previously installed an herb garden, and it has been quite satisfactory. We have had tomatoes and such in the past and decided that it was time to reinstate the vegetable that is really a fruit. After deliberating about pattern, size and location, the supplies were acquired and the work was under way. I did some measuring, dug up a patch of grass and made some adjustments. We surveyed the progress and made more adjustments. Then, the digging of the trench around the perimeter — and more adjustments. Paving base, sand, then a course of concrete thingies formed and dyed to look somewhat like fieldstones. More adjusting, more digging, then the second course of stone. So far, so good. Inside the
wall went compost and topsoil. Not bad, not bad. It seemed that it would fit nicely in the yard, it looked the way we expected it to look and maybe better. But … would tomatoes, or perhaps additional herbs, grow in it? Time would tell. We selected three varieties of tomatoes and decided that any additional herbs would have to wait until next year if they were not already growing in the herb garden. The tomato plants were lovingly dug in and caged — the latter task coming a bit later than is preferable, but no disaster. As you likely know, tomatoes grow exceptionally well in Indiana. Provide proper drainage, some decent soil, ample water, hope for decent heat and sunlight … and the end product is quite lovely. Delicious, organic tomatoes that travel about 10 meters from vine to table, and that is if we eat indoors. However, what struck me about our garden this year is what we did not plan or plant. We have a few flowers in pots and have had the past couple of years. A standard is the marigold. Aside from its lovely appearance, its in-
sect-repelling capabilities and its smell — that I adore, but that many find odd — it seems that I come from a long line of marigold growers. OK, that is a bit of an overstatement. But I know that my parents like them (my dad, in particular, likes the way they smell) and that one year my mom gave me marigold seeds that her aunt had harvested. We invested a great deal of time, energy and other resources into constructing an ideal environment for tomatoes, and what did we get? Well, excellent tomatoes, no doubt. But in our tomato garden grew a marigold. My wife was certain that I had, oddly, planted it as it was really well-positioned and of lovely shape, size and color. Oh, no. It was a volunteer (which I find such a charming term for unintended plants). I really like this plant, if you have not guessed. And, at the risk of beating you over the head and not giving you any credit whatsoever as a reader, I have to say it: Through a great deal of preparation and hard work and perseverance, we did, in fact, achieve the intended result. The process, honestly, was satisfying as well. But it was the unintended result — the surprise — that made me reflect on nature and life, hard work and planning, and orange things with spicy odors. Last year, it was volunteer pumpkins — they did not return this year. Perhaps I’ll harvest and replant some of those marigold’s seeds — obviously this is a specimen of worthy stock. Then again ….
Coffee
is part product, part process By Daniel Schuetz I shall begin by telling you from the start, I love coffee. For better or for worse, I must admit that any coffee —even bad coffee — is preferable to no coffee. However, I must also tell you that I am something of a coffee snob. Snob is not a nice word. Let me say — connoisseur. I am not really sure how it started. My parents are coffee people, so perhaps it is the fond childhood memories of the smell of brewing coffee wafting through the sleepy house on a weekend morning. Maybe it is the pleasant jolt of the caffeine-laced bitter brew. Certainly I adore the product. I particularly enjoy the product when it is well-crafted. I think it is the process — the experience — of coffee that appeals to me as much as the substance itself. When I need to do some serious thinking, or if I just want to relax and watch the world go by, I think I do both better with coffee in hand. At the end of a great meal, nothing is more satisfying with dessert, or even without dessert, than an espresso. Certainly, the work day can hardly begin without a fix.
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“Wanna grab a coffee?” It is a loaded question, right? It could be for a meeting. It could be a quasi-date. It could just be a chance for friends to catch up and to relax a bit. Just as “coffeehouse” evokes an image of more than just a building from which coffee is sold, so does “having coffee” mean more than just consuming a beverage. That something is pleasant and necessary. The coffee-as-experience theme is greater than the consumption phase. In order to have coffee that transcends mere goodness, both the beans and the roasting process have to be just so. “Organic” and “fair-trade” are both desirable labels. Grinding the beans immediately prior to brewing helps, too. For me, though, the best beans are acquired from the place where I first was captivated by coffee ... Costa Rica? Indonesia? Jamaica? Ah, no. My parents’ house. It is not just the relaxing and the visiting that make this a premier coffee drinking destination. It starts with the beans. I told you that I am a — ahem — connoisseur. Apparently, the bean does not fall far from the tree. Several years ago, my dad, with Mom’s encouragement and blessing, started roasting his own coffee beans. What began as something of an experimental hobby has evolved through a complex process complete with computations reminiscent of “A Beautiful Mind.” Crude roasting devices have been replaced by more sophisticated machinery. Even the flood of ’08, which destroyed both machinery and beans, could not drown the desire. I am happy to report that roasting has resumed, as has proper coffee drinking with my parents. The precisely roasted beans are given as gifts, shared at special events and contemplated as the result of a process both scientific and artistic. The most important part, of course, is enjoying a great cup of coffee with people I love. Freshly roasted. Freshly ground. Freshly brewed. Having a connection with the process undoubtedly enhances the experience. Cream? Sugar? I like mine black. A warm-up? A to-go cup? Yes, please. But let’s sit for just a minute more.
viewfrommars
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By Daniel Schuetz So, the other day I was having a conversation with a friend about Facebook. Our dialogue could have been about social networking in general, certainly, but we were not speaking in the abstract. I was unabashedly extolling the virtues. “OK, but what about people I don’t want to be friends with?” “Don’t respond to their friend request,” I explained, “or accept their request, then un-friend them.” This concept was acceptable — perhaps even desirable — to my real-life friend. I think there was a certain satisfaction in the notion of secretly clicking a button and kicking someone out of your virtual life. “But won’t they know?” “Eh, maybe. But they don’t get an announcement or anything.” “Aha … so they might have to figure it out …,” my friend speculated. “But what about personal information?” “Oh, there are all sorts of security preferences you can control.” We chatted for a while about the mechanics of the thing. The adjustments that could be made. The pros and the cons. I suggested that perhaps the best way for him to either learn how to use it, or to cross it off the list of things to do, would be for me to get him started on it, then for him to just play around for a
while. This seemed acceptable. I was not really trying to convert the masses or anything. I’m not going to start greeting people at the airport, handing a flower and asking if they have found Facebook. I do not hold an ownership interest. I just like it. And I thought my friend would like it. Both for business and for pleasure. “Here’s the thing,” I said. “I have cousins and aunts and uncles and such to whom I can send messages on their respective birthdays. I would never have done that otherwise, and I like to do it. “Same with births of classmates’ children. I am in touch with people with whom I would not otherwise be in touch.” I am not so sure if this last bit was taken as a pro or a con. Perhaps there are people in our lives with whom we should not have ongoing contact: the cute girl from summer camp who creeps into consciousness at unexpected times, the long-lost former neighbor, the person from school that we kind of knew. Perhaps there is supposed to be an ebb and flow to the tide of people in our lives and not an ever-growing pool of individuals whom we know with varying degrees of intimacy. I think I have a potential convert, but the conversation quickly shifted. “I think I would enjoy World
Cup, but I don’t know much about soccer,” my friend said. “Oh, well. What we should do is sit down and watch a game together. Have a few beers and watch. That’s the best way. Random questions and subtle points are much more easily addressed that way. So much better than just reading about it.” My friend thought that this sounded like a good idea — or he was being polite. But I know my friend well enough to know that he likely would have made it quite clear if he were not at all interested in this prospect. Whether I said it out loud, I do not remember, but the point that I would have made is this: Regardless of the ability to be in virtual contact with thousands — millions — of people, I would never trade that for lunch or beers or both with a real-life friend. In person. Face-to-face. Sharing the same environment. The sounds, the smells. The passersby. A true shared experience. So, a discussion about Facebook, I realized, was even more satisfying to me than actually using the thing. Sharing a soccer match with someone was more appealing to me than the prospect of watching alone. I remembered that I have a very high opinion of my own instructive abilities. And I was reminded to savor face-to-face time with my real-life, flesh-andblood friends.
viewfrommars
mars view
By Daniel Schuetz
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I would like to take this opportunity to tell you about some very nice things that I have done over the last several months. Oh, I know it may seem a bit immodest to engage in such self-congratulatory behavior. If I don’t tell you about it though, how else will you know what a swell fellow I’ve been? You may be wondering how Mrs. View From Mars puts up with me. I often wonder about this, myself. Trust me, though. Once she finds out about this, she will be so … well … angry and embarrassed, probably. However, you are assuming that she reads what I write. But you! Yes, you, faithful reader! You can now read and judge for yourself just how magnanimous I have been. In no particular order: • I borrowed gasoline for my lawn mower from my neighbor without asking (come to think of it, Bill may not even know about this … so … “Thanks, Bill”). • I allowed a practical stranger to give me a ride to work. • I indulged one of my younger siblings in buying me a beer and one in giving me a bottle of wine. • I permitted several of my friends to listen to my pointless whining about something-or-another. • I accepted a variety of completely undeserved gifts from a couple of different people. Now, I know what you are thinking: “Yes, you are super-nice. But did you have to be so … so … boastful?” This is a common reaction, and I understand your point. Maybe the reporting of such gestures ought to be left to the beneficiary. I should have filled this space with quotes from my neighbor such as: “Heckuva guy — he barged right in like he owned the place and took stuff without asking!” Or, perhaps, I should be kind enough to stop writing here, avoid insulting your intelligence and let you draw the conclusions. I’m not that nice, though, nor do I have the self-control to leave it at that. Of course, the point is that one of the things that makes me feel best about myself is
when I offer something to someone, and they accept my offer. I like feeling helpful, and I like doing something nice for someone else. Obvious, right? Except for the biggest jerks among us, I would guess that most of us derive some pleasure from helping out a friend or loved one — sometimes even a stranger. Here’s the thing, though: If we never accept … then no one ever gets to give. I know that my neighbors want me to feel free to borrow certain things without asking, and they know that they are free to do the same. It is a wonderful level of trust and friendship that should be exercised. If no one ever acts on it, it is a mere formality. Accepting a ride? (As an aside, this was from another neighbor and not really a stranger.) This was a very generous offer — and it was indeed a great favor to me — but without the acceptance part, it was merely another missed connection. Acquiescing to offers of lunch, drinks and the like? Receiving gifts graciously? Opening up about one’s feelings on a particular topic? All opportunities to connect with those around us. To need and be needed. To give and to take. Critical elements of a robust and meaningful human experience. There is a certain vulnerability to saying “yes.” Perhaps we will feel obligated or indebted. Perhaps we like to believe that we are completely self-sufficient and need no assistance. Perhaps we do not want to admit that we need something from someone else. Giving in to someone else’s generosity is part of the joy of life, I say. Accept an invitation. Take someone up on an offer. Be a little vulnerable. Say, “Yes, thank you, that would be great.”
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This weather
puts a little spring in my step By Daniel Schuetz Today might be the nicest day of the year. Not actually today — the day I am writing this — but today, the day you are reading this. Not the date on the calendar, as I do not know, at this moment, what that will be. But that future today, somewhere in mid-April, might be the nicest day of the year. “Why,” you may ask, “would you say such a thing?” “Well,” I’ll tell you. “Well.” Generally speaking, I enjoy the weather in Indiana. The variety, the unpredictability, the distinct seasons. If forced to choose, I would say that fall is our nicest season. It is generally warm, fading to cool, the colors are usually lovely, and it often has some heft to it — weeks to contemplate the change. Additionally, fall brings all sorts of athletic events, outdoor activities, holidays and the like. What’s not to like about fall in Indiana? Oh, summer is great — who doesn’t like summer? And, winter has its merits. But this is not about the seasons — it is about today. OK, a bit more about seasons. Spring would be my favorite. More sunlight. More warmth. The emergence of flowers. The birds, the bees — the whole lot. However, I have learned not to expect too much from spring around here. We all know that the final bits of frost can give way to the
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heat and humidity of summer. It just happens. Frequently. Sometimes we get weeks of spring — and it is incredible. But even in the shortest of spring seasons — there is that day. Maybe it is this day. The day in question is difficult or impossible to quantify. But here are some things for which to look. It generally happens during what the calendar tells us is spring. Sometime between late March and late June. It is usually warm — ideally shorts and long-sleeved shirt would be appropriate garb. You can smell it in the air, the soil, the grass, whatever floral fragrances float on the breeze. A breeze — that helps, too. Blue skies are a plus. Perhaps some fluffy white clouds as well. If the daffodils are still blooming, great. I’m not too picky, though — tulips will do. Lilacs? Great. Forsythia? Great. Even with all of these guidelines, few of the “rules” for this nicest day are hard and fast. There is flexibili-
ty. There are options. It is one of those things about which one might say they know it when they see it. “Great,” you might now say. “Nicest day. Super. So what?” “So glad you asked,” I’ll say. What is so nice about the nicest day is how it makes me feel. To walk outside and catch the freshness in the air. To feel the sunshine on my face. To perceive the rebirth of the world around me. Aside from the pure pleasantness, there is that feeling. A feeling of optimism. A feeling of possibility. “Yes? You over there — what’s that? You feel that way on the first day of summer? Uh, oh, OK. That could be the nicest day, sure.” “What’s that? On the first snowfall? Well, if that suits you, I guess. Not really rebirth, is it?” “A foggy, drizzly day in fall? You feel how?” OK, so for you, today may not be even close to the nicest day of the year. But give it a sniff first.
You couldn’t get lost in yesteryear’s
hardware store By Daniel Schuetz
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I recently observed an older gentleman smoking a pipe. I do not believe that he and I are acquainted, but there is something vaguely familiar about him. I have seen him several times now, each time smoking a pipe and each time on the premises of a shopping complex that occupies a space formerly occupied by a hardware store. He seems to belong there. This hardware store predated the big boxes. As with many small hardware stores, it had an affiliation — True Value, Ace and the like — along with the name of the proprietor. So it would be “Schuetz’s Great Hardware,” if “Great” were the name of a hardware store and I owned one.
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Anyhow, seeing this fellow smoking a pipe in this particular place reminded me of a favorite childhood activity — going to the hardware store with Dad. And, though it sometimes took visits to two or even three stores — and there were that many and more in our small town — the first stop was usually the place now occupied by the aforementioned shopping complex. I liked everything about these trips to the hardware store: spending time with Dad, “helping” with the quest for the perfect item to complete whatever project and the hardware store itself. The smell, the arrays of washers and bolts, the common tools, the obscure specialty items. Some whats-its new and replenished frequently, some doo-dads with dusty boxes — untouched since they were stocked some untold years prior. This particular place, the first stop, was staffed by two older, pipe-smoking gentlemen. I would guess there were other employees, but these two fellows seemed always to be there, smoking pipes. Actually, I think you could buy pipes and other smoking accoutrement at this store, but that is beside the point. The pace was slow but purposeful. The balding, smoking, highly knowledgeable, incessantly polite, “Earl” or somesuch, would ask Dad what he needed. I would guess that Dad could have found whatever it was without assistance, but then, why not chat with Earl? Always a, “And how are you, young man?” Always a yellow-toothed chuckle about something. I think the man would then walk us to the front counter and handle the check-out as well. There may have been 10 pipe-smoking grandfathers working there, or two. I do not recall knowing these men outside the hardware store — they lived there, for all I knew. Eventually, the giant, well-known hardware store chains came, and that was fine. That might have been enough for the end of this special place, but the eponymous proprietor died and that was surely the end of the small local hardware store.
It is not as if I maintained a vigil. I was in and out of town, living elsewhere, worrying about other things. My pipe-smoking friends might have died years before the store closed; I do not know. Maybe they went elsewhere to direct people to the dowel rods. Maybe they are fishing in Florida. The fellow that I watched recently was hanging around the service door of the new establishment like he belonged there. For all I know, maybe he didn’t belong there. Maybe he moved to town six months ago and washes dishes in one of the new businesses inhabiting the sacred hardware store grounds. In my mind though, he has been there continuously, smoking his pipe. Calling people “young man.” Offering to show the new knives they just got in stock. At the end of the day, I find the scene charming. If he tousled my hair and offered to show Dad where the drill bits are, that would be just fine.
The simplest solutions By Daniel Schuetz
I am teaching a writing class at my alma mater. Grammarians and contrarians: fear not! I am striving to guide these bright young minds to write clearly and properly — not to follow my style, or anyone else’s, for that matter. If they tighten up their form a bit and write in a clear voice, I am satisfied. At the beginning of the course, I anticipated that among my greater complaints would be writing that was too simple. I thought they would need coaxing to use clauses and commas. I thought that maybe we would have to spend a great deal of time developing vocabulary. Ah, but here is where the instructor learned a lesson [cue ironic background music]. The biggest problem, across the board, was elevated diction (I had to borrow that term from another professor). This elevated diction,
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then, led to convoluted sentences, otherwise good vocabulary that was out of context, and so forth. After a bit of reflection, I reminded myself that they were, perhaps unwittingly, showing off a bit. Oh, not to impress me necessarily, but just to strut a bit. My students are mostly freshmen and a few sophomores. As we try to find our place in this world, who among us does not want to sound smart? After a little more reflection, I decided that this phenomenon had less to do with strutting and more to do with conditioning. So, when I met with my students to discuss their first papers, I approached the problem thusly: I suggested that from the point when we first write a simple story, in first grade or whenever that is, we have limited vocabulary and the most basic of sentence structures. As we progress through school, our vocabulary improves, our ability to construct complex sentences and paragraphs increases, and our writing becomes more mature. The problem, then, is that if one were to graph this progress, the line could continue forever until our writ-
ing became so complex as to be unintelligible. The solution, then, is to look for simpler ways to say what we mean. While it may initially seem counter-intuitive, a sign of more advanced writing is often saying more with less. I was reminded of a valuable bit of knowledge that I learned from an astronomy professor at the very school at which I am now teaching. I may have learned the lesson elsewhere, too, but it was in this astronomy class that it stuck. The lesson was about Occam’s razor — the notion that when faced with a number of complex ideas, we should tend to select the simpler solutions in favor of the more complex. Of course, the razor is more complex than that, but for the sake of simplicity, that will have to do. In the midst of all of this, I also came across a writing contest requiring a very short story. Referenced was Hemingway’s shortest story ever written. It is too sad to tell here, and besides, I have reached my word limit. But you should look for it. Saying more by saying less. Simple.
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By Daniel Schuetz It seems that I am frequently learning some lesson or other. I am not sure whether this is because I have a lot to learn, so nearly every life experience is a lesson, or whether I am an attentive student. To make myself feel better, I shall opt for the latter. The first lesson that comes to mind is that it is not my job to teach my wife any lessons. I do not mean to imply that she needs to be taught any lessons. Rather, it is my relentless belief that those around me would enjoy their lives a great deal more if they conducted themselves in exactly the same way I would conduct myself in a similar situation. I am talking about really important things here: placing the toilet paper roll correctly, loading the dishwasher properly, sorting the recycling just so. It is not that I think people should do things exactly the way I do things; I just think people would want to do things correctly ... It is so painful when I catch myself thinking like this. Not only does this suggest to me that my ego is raging unchecked, but also that I am thinking so little of my spouse (or whoever else happens to be in the blast zone) that their way of performing simple tasks could not possibly be correct. As if there even is a “correct” for many of these mundane tasks. Is that part of the human condition? To assert our way of doing things on the world around us? To attempt to “teach a lesson” to any and all who would hear us? On the other hand, I think that part of my duty as a parent — not as a spouse — is to teach a lesson or two. Do not our children rely upon
us to impart upon them the wisdom of the ages? Simple, kind, patient instruction ought to be a part of parenting, I should think. Even with kids, though, I have to remind myself that no one wants to be subject to constant scrutiny and continuous correction. Sometimes, the best lessons are those we learn ourselves — through exploration, through failure, through necessity. In the vein of avoiding constant correction and naysaying, I learned a couple of lessons from my children. These were more like reminders than new information, but we all need reminding from time to time. The first thing is that if you want something ask for it. “Can we have a treat?” My inclination was to say no. But I acquiesced. “OK, how about some ice cream?” Two lessons learned: Ask for what you want and say yes to your kids once in a while. After preparing two lovely dishes of ice cream for two lovely girls, I went about some other task. I returned to find them licking their respective bowls. Ice cream on their noses, eyelashes and shirts. I did not yell. I did search my mind for the best parental reprimand I could find. What came out was: “That is exactly the right thing to do, girls. I bet that is delicious.” Sometimes, you just gotta lick the bowl. Reminder noted. Do not try to teach your significant other lessons. Do try to teach your kids lessons. Occasionally, be willing to take some in return.
Welcome to Columbus… better late than never By Daniel Schuetz So, the other day, I had a little fling. Don’t judge. It was more of an adventure than a fling. Worry not — my wife was there. The kids were there, too. And some strangers. In public. In broad daylight. I indulged in … Columbus. Yep. Our Columbus. This Columbus. The Indiana one. Look here — there is an adage that has something to do with converts being more zealous than lifers. It tends to hold true with religion, new foods, bands and athletic teams. Not always. A tendency. I am a convert. A move-in. A newb. And so, every now and then, I get to experience town as a first-time tourist might. Checking out obvious must-sees, stumbling across forgotten gems. This particular day was of the lovely late summer variety. Actually, it was uncomfortably warm, but whatever. We began by returning our books to the library. A wonderful start. We finished by driving past a couple of not-really-hidden Columbus restaurants — institutions, almost — to which my native wife has never taken me. This last bit
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is kind of a recurring theme. As if it is her job to show me every interesting element of Columbus. In the middle, we visited a park. On another day, we’ll ride our bikes here. Probably have a picnic. We stopped to look at a placard on a historic-looking brick structure. Fascinating history. In my mind, I had been saying “Mill Race Park,” as if it were some random, made-up name. A mill race — of course! So, we talked about mills. We smelled the lavender. We fled bees. The plan was to climb the tower with the kids. And that is just what we did. The dialogue on the trip to the top can be summarized as follows: Me: Isn’t this awesome? Wife: Yes, it is awesome. Younger kid: My legs hurt. Older kid: I thought you should know that there are some terrible words written over there. We all reached the top and we were all impressed. Great perspective, that. Gleeful racing down the stairs. A walk along the trail. What the… ?! I had never seen the concrete pond and covered bridge. My wife believed that she had failed in her duty. I believed that if we were in a foreign city we would be taking countless photographs. I imagined top hats and hand fans and champagne. The kids were impressed by the school of small fish. We romped through more of the park. Departing, we reassured the children that they would, in fact, have some water to drink at some future point in their lives. We visited the butcher. We took the aforementioned tour of previously concealed eateries. I looked at buildings and streets with fresh eyes — examining as if for the first time. So charming. Even our familiar home was more welcoming as it was now nestled in the midst of my newly found burg. What was most satisfying? Living with purpose? Spending time with my family? Appreciating where I live? Incredibly easy answer: yes.
By Daniel Schuetz
There are few things, I say, more satisfying than the end of a workout. That feeling of having done something good for yourself. Of testing the limits and pushing boundaries. Sweaty. Exhausted. Alive. Some folks get the proverbial runner’s high — euphoria where one might expect to find fatigue. For many, it is just the pleasure of exertion. Or guilt. Or fear. Wherever one finds motivation. It is not just being healthier though, is it? That is great, of course. But the psychological boost of knowing you are doing something good for your body, good for your mind. You need not be a gym rat, either. Gardening, hiking, dancing — whatever it is that makes that fist-sized muscle in your chest pump. “Uh-huh,” you’re saying. “No kidding,” you’re saying. “Thanks for the advice, genius,” you might also be saying. Well, mock all you want. You either exercise and agree, or you do not exercise and you are mocking. The point of all of this is a slightly too-long lead in to my current obsession: CrossFit. There is no shortage of things I can say about CrossFit. It provides every opportunity to exert in ways that you may not have previously considered exerting. There is running. There is weight lifting. There is flexibility. It is mentally taxing. It is physically exhausting. It is among the most satisfying things I’ve ever done in my life. If you know what it is, then you know. If you do not, I don’t know what to tell you other than you’re welcome to try it. Anytime. Really. Send me an email. A bit of research will likely reveal remarkable physical specimens. Muscle-bound, some thick, some lean. Men and women. Is this CrossFit? Well, yes. And, no. One of the most fantastic facets of CrossFit is that it is, by design, scaled to suit any individual. My kids can do it. Fit people do it. Not-yet-so-fit people do it. You can do it. Sometimes I really like the solitude and opportunity for contemplation when I work out. And I can do that with Cross-
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Fit. Often, though, I crave community. Team-ness. And that, most certainly, is available with CrossFit. A small (or sometimes large) group, a highly trained coach, unpredictable workouts, a little competition, a little teamwork. Fantastic. To be honest, my wife found it before I did. And I was a little skeptical at first. She encouraged me, and I tried it. I got it. It got me. It makes sense, philosophically and physically. It challenges me to do things I did not think I could do. It meshes with things that are important to me — trying new things, pushing one’s self, eating well and resting well.
I sometimes go by myself, but often, we go as a family. The kids are welcome and often try the exercises that are age-appropriate. Often they just run around like wild apes, and that is fine, too. Did I mention balance, agility, speed and endurance? OK – so maybe it sounds like I’ve “drunk the Kool-Aid.” Like I’m some sort of “true believer,” proselytizing about the next soonto-be-forgotten great thing. Not so, I tell you. Great exercise. Great community. Great process. Great results. The offer stands.